


constellate

by flailingthroughsanity



Series: follow the stars and let go (idolverse) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Idols, Anal Sex, Keith (Voltron) Has a Praise Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, idolverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: “Okay,” Shiro whispers back, or tries to, when he’s not busy prying Keith’s lips open, wanting to hear that whine again, feel it vibrate against his own lips. “Okay, baby. What do you want me to teach you?”He presses another kiss, grips the smooth hair tight, and angles Keith’s chin in the right direction and, there,yes, there we go– that tongue, hot and wet and Shiro wants it close, wants all of him close, wants Keith this close, without the cameras in their faces, without the eyes of the whole world judging every inch of their skin and their identities.Keith whines, gripping the back of Shiro’s shirt tightly. He gasps when Shiro breaks away. “Everything, Shiro. Everything.”Keith is an eager student who won't take 'no' for an answer. Shiro's lost the game before he even started playing.





	constellate

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so this idea was born out of the many years I spent writing for the K-pop idol groups I used to spazz and fanboy over (occasionally still do, tbh). I know this is entirely smut, but it's also part of a universe I'm thinking of expanding in the future ([Jaeseoksoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaeseoksoo) is partially to blame for building this idea in my head). Also, the general mental conversation I had when it came to thinking up a name of a male pop idol group with Shiro in it went something like:
> 
>  
> 
> _Me: Hmm, can't be 'Voltron' because we'd need Pidge and Allura in it..._  
>  _Me: Maybe Galaxy...Garrison? Marketed as 'GG'?_  
>  _Me: ...like Girls' Generation._
> 
>  
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you'll enjoy this little smutfest!
> 
>  
> 
>  **con·stel·late**  
>  /ˈkänstəlāt/  
>  _verb_ , form or cause to form into a cluster or group; gather together.

Shiro first notices the stares.

Maybe it’s because it’s Keith, of all people. He’s always been the quiet one – the odd one of the group – and the way he stares at people had first been weird, downright creepy even, but over time they – he – had grown used to it.

It wasn’t hard, though. They were seven people stuffed into an old house, told to live together, if not _with_ each other despite being strangers with one another, if they wanted to survive in the pop idol industry. He’s not an idealist, Shiro knows that it’s not the glamour of their gimmicks or the blatant slap-on of their heavily-constructed ‘brotherhood’ or the sob stories that have been milked so many times that keeps them floating. It’s all a mixture of the right producers, the right tracks, promotion by the more influential members and the general sheep that is their audience, willing to purchase their tracks and support them (because who _won’t_ when you have Keith’s fake cheekiness asking you to buy their latest album). Still, in spite of that, things like podcasts and reality shows are still necessary – necessary to keep whatever is left of their band floating after years grueling in the spotlight.

What’s not necessary, though, is the constant, open way Keith stares at him.

Shiro knows it’s Keith – knows it even with his eyes closed and his back turned – because that gaze burns into his skin (dark eyes wide and molten), brands it with feelings he doesn’t want to voice out and leaves him prickling with a kind of _want_ that is all levels of wrong.

He has to give it to the boy, though. Despite being open with his staring, he doesn’t really initiate anything – and Shiro doesn’t know if the other members are aware of it, if they had noticed the change of the dynamics between their appointed ‘leader’ and Keith – the heated gazes, the words echoing with a current that should never be disclosed – and if they _had,_ they simply remained silent about it.

Maybe it’s out of respect…or maybe it’s out of fear and uncertainty – because the group, the team, _them,_ Galaxy Garrison hasn’t been fine in a while. It hasn’t been fine in a really long time.

He shakes his head – and the boy blinks, looking a bit confused – and Shiro must wonder if Keith thought it was directed at him and not the unpleasant direction of his thoughts.

He smiles back, though, if not a little uncertain himself, and Keith relaxes, leans back against the rest of the couch and continues his staring.

There’s no one here – no one but them, not in the quiet of his own apartment, just him and Keith’s breathing. Shiro continues to stand by the island table, hip against the cold steel, eyes taking in the other in the amber lamplight from overhead. On some other time, it’d be weird (well, weird _er)_ to have Keith in his apartment of his own volition – not without a cameraman to film it, or with his own phone out so he could post it on some app to feed their fans. Now, though, after everything, he’s not surprised. Keith had gotten a little…clingier than usual.

Understandable, if Shiro so much as thought about it, but thinking about things lead to thinking about people and thinking about people lead to thinking about the band and he can’t. Not now, not yet. The wound was still fresh.

But Keith – he was different.

Thinking about Keith didn’t bring up thoughts of anger, didn’t make him clench his fists until his knuckles turn white and his vision goes red, didn’t make him want to throw the nearest object at everything that had ‘GG’ labeled on it.

“Shiro.” It’s the low current of his tone, the way Keith’s lips curl around the title, that pink lip sneakily lapping at his lips, has Shiro gripping the island table in a different sort of tension.

“Yes?” He responds. He’s not curt or mean. He knows what he looks like through the gazes of their fans, he’s not like any of that. They see the stylishly colored silver hair clumping down his forehead, the taupe eyes lined in kohl and the purposefully puckered lips in the right angle, knowing there will be a million photos of him in that angle across the Internet before midnight. Yet, they also see the persona he wears on-stage and before the lights, the ‘stern leader’ look his company wants him to use, one of the little tidbits he could help with.

The other doesn’t answer his question, remains silent, and if not for that heated gaze – in the shadows cast by the light across the room, Keith and his black clothes would have receded into the darkness.

There’s been something unspoken between them – something that had come up and jumped him without his permission, something that grew and festered under his skin until he was searing hot and red, bruising and aching and it echoes in the pinpricks of light reflected in the other’s eyes.

He doesn’t know if it’s the years of being in the spotlight together, if the familiarity has, at last, blossomed into that eerie intimacy that could only flower when the world had all its eyes on you.

“Shiro,” Keith begins again, and there’s something foreboding – no, not foreboding, perhaps excitement, perhaps thrill — in that single world. Shiro continues to stare. “What does it feel like to be kissed?”

The question is both expected and unexpected, and Shiro’s fingers grow lax on the corner of the table. Sweat prickles by his temples, and suddenly it’s a bit stuffy in the room as his gaze drops from dark eyes to lips, and they’re set in rest but something devious lurks at their edges.

“What are you talking about?”

Keith rises from the couch, slinking close like a wraith – pale skin and dark eyes and lips just a tad bit redder – and, suddenly, he’s all up in Shiro’s space, not pressing close but almost, his breath fanning out and Shiro can _feel_ it on his skin.

Charged and just a bit hesitant, Shiro’s eyes drop back to those lips before looking away, inhaling deeply. He doesn’t look at Keith but he can feel that same gaze trace the lines of his neck and his jaw.

“Keith,” and Shiro tries to say it with as much nonchalance he could never muster—not when Keith was this close, this real and this warm. Not when Keith was in front of him, no camera lights to blind him and no clicking sound of the photographers deafening his ears. He turns, and before he knows it, Keith had stepped even closer and he feels _it,_ eyes wide – the pad of soft lips against his for a moment, and they’re backing away and Keith is stepping back, looking cheerful for something so… _slight_ and momentary.

The smile is impish as Shiro stares, a bit slack-jawed. Keith steps back, grinning cheekily, as he dumps himself back down on the couch, booted feet jumping on its balls for a second. “Now, I’ve been kissed.”

Something in Shiro just _breaks_ – at the insolent tone, the lippy way Keith’s smile prods at the imprint of those lips on his a moment before, it was _insulting_ and his blood boils –

Shiro is sauntering, bare feet on the floor leaving no sound, and Keith’s eyes widen, dark-colored surprise, before a thin veil of _victory_ flashes as Shiro presses Keith down the couch, climbs over him and presses their lips together.

The kiss isn’t soft – it’s insistent and fierce and bruising and he expects Keith to push back at him, for his eyes to widen in fear because this isn’t Shiro – Shiro isn’t terrifying, he doesn’t want to be terrifying but something about Keith brings a fierce, _primal_ need in him – but he doesn’t expect Keith to give back as much as he is receiving, doesn’t expect Keith to rope those hands around his neck and pull him closer, for those lips to open and a whine of need creaks and crawls up his throat and Shiro shudders, because there’s Keith’s tongue and, god, he tastes so good.

Shiro breaks away, breathing deeply (no, gasping) and there’s a flush of red across the other’s cheeks, hair strewn against the leather of the couch, lips red in abuse, and the gaze Keith gives him is infernal.

A bit raspy, Shiro whispers. “ _Now,_ you’ve been kissed.”

The smile that grows is conspiratorial, the eyes flashing with a kind of slyness that Keith hides from the public (the kind of calculation that he’s seen only in snippets, in the enclosed spaces of the times they’ve shared where no cameras were pointed at them, no microphones tied and sewn into the lapels of their shirts).

Suddenly, Shiro is aware of their position. He’s aware of his body pressing against Keith, literally on him. He remembers the hand that had gripped the side of the other’s neck, the other holding the arm rest above tightly. He feels the texture of the denim against his bare leg, feels the buckle of Keith’s belt against his groin and, _fuck,_ he was in his boxers and was that Keith’s hand on the hem of his shirt, or was it the one trailing the light hair down his navel?

A million and one thoughts run through his head — each one a blaring alarm of how wrong and inappropriate this was — but they’re drowned out, suffocated in the justifications and the lighting-tinged fire up his veins.

“Keith,” He begins – asks, _begs_ – because he can’t do anything, not with Keith looking like every goddamn fantasy brought to life. “What do you want?”

And Keith – cheeky and bright and weird and wanting — leans close and traces those lips against his lobe and breathes. “You.”

Shiro groans, low and aching, as the word echoes in the thrums of his veins. The hand playing on his navel trails lower and traces the bulge of Shiro’s boxers and his grasp on the other’s neck _trembles._

“I want you to teach me.”

* * *

 

“This is Keith,” Allura — their constantly overworked manager — directed, raising a slim hand to point at the guy standing by the door of their dance studio. Their choreographer gestures for the music to stop, and they all relax. Or as much as they can when sweating in rivulets.

Shiro turns from his place at the front — they had stopped just when he had gotten to his part of the song — and rests his hands on his waist, wiping his cheek on the lapel of his shirt. To the side, Ryan crouches, with Lance hovering behind him.

“He’s the last addition to the group.” Allura mentioned, making eye-contact with the choreographer. He grouses in response, tapping Hunk on the shoulder so he could stop leaning against the mirror.

“Thought we were complete already?” Shiro hears James comment, half-turned to Lotor, who merely shrugged and stared back at the Keith guy by the door. There’s a moment of silence, and it takes Shiro a moment to realize that they’re all looking at him—

Lotor raised a brow, cocking his head at the door. Shiro’s brows furrow, as if mentally asking _what_ , only for Lotor to roll his eyes. A thumb pointed to Keith, Lotor’s other hand gestured between them, lips mouthing along.

_Make him feel welcome._

Shiro breathes deeply and nodded, aware of the gaze of the other members on him. Sure, he may be the eldest but that doesn’t mean the rest of them have to be babies about it. It wasn’t like their age differences were that big, to start off.

Allura smiled tiredly at him, and he tried to return a slightly genuine one — he knew how much she’s taking on, making sure that radio stations and broadcast channels would be willing to showcase them for their debut. The least he could do was not be a problem for her.

“Hey!” He greets, turning from her to Keith, who was still by his post near the door, making sure that he sounded friendly enough. Keith nodded his head, answering him quietly, and Shiro took the time to survey the latest addition to their group.

He looked young enough, probably the youngest out of them. He wasn’t particularly tall, or defined. He was lanky, and the veritable bush of dark hair made his face even smaller. Off the top of his head, Shiro would guess him to be at least a few years younger. Shiro was the eldest, at nineteen, Keith would be sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. Probably.

He could see people calling him ‘cute’, though, what with his upturned nose and his eyes that gleamed distinctly. Not idol material, mind you, but not a single one of them in that room was idol material at all — that was for the stylists and the coordinators to do.

“Guess we’re complete then, huh?” He joked, smiling at him and Allura, and Keith looked up and nodded again, a small smile playing on his lips. Shiro nodded at their manager and threw a wink over his shoulder as he turned back to the rest of the group, hearing Allura brief Keith on what to do next.

He stretched his arms, deciding to ignore the curious looks the other guys threw his way. With Keith finally here, they can finally start training as a group to be a group. They’d need that, if they wanted to succeed in a cut-throat industry that has sunk a million other idol groups.

“You better be a fast learner, kid,” Shiro calls out, and watching Keith’s reflection looking back at him, determined. They only had a year left to train and get ready for their debut, and he’d be damned if he won’t make something he’s aimed almost all his life.

He nods his head at the choreographer, unaware of just how much things will change in the times to come.

* * *

Shiro knows he should say no.

Shiro knows that he should be the stronger one.

Shiro knows that there would be so _many_ repercussions for this — that this wasn’t worth the shitstorm that’s already brewing in the distance. Fuck, that kiss was already ten miles past the line and Shiro knows that so many things are hinging on his decision – because he may just be a ‘leader’ in the four walls of this apartment but he’s just as important a member to this band as the rest, and any mistake on his part could spell doom on something he had worked so hard to build.

He knows it, and the word is resting on his lips already, itching to be unleashed.

Keith rises, presses his front against his and whispers. “Please, Shiro.”

And Shiro isn’t strong enough.

Because the way Keith asks, the way he says those words, they’re brimming with a need that he can’t deny, they’re aching for an approval he knows he could give – fuck, he knows Keith is determined and, sure, he sometimes forgets that in the wake of his charm and his smile but he doesn’t, can’t deny that quiet strength, fire-tempered steel, dormant under that easy smile and Shiro knows that he’s lost the game the moment Keith looked at him.

“Okay,” Shiro whispers back, or tries to, when he’s not busy prying Keith’s lips open, wanting to hear that whine again, feel it vibrate against his own lips. “Okay, baby. What do you want me to teach you?”

He presses another kiss, grips the smooth hair tight, and angles Keith’s chin in the right direction and, there, yes, there we go – that tongue, hot and wet and Shiro wants it close, wants all of him close.

Keith whines, gripping the back of Shiro’s shirt tightly. He gasps when Shiro breaks away. “Everything, Shiro. Everything.”

 _Shit,_ Shiro thinks. _Shit, shit, shit._ There’s nothing else he could supply because, damn it, of course, Keith would want to learn everything. In spite of his looks, his smile and his penchant for silence – Keith was an avid learner. He knows it by heart, knows the way the other looks when he’s covered in sweat and his bones are aching and he looks close to fainting but _no,_ he would say, _I can get this. Play the song one more time._

Knew it the way his heart probably already knew then — when their youngest was the stranger to the group, but braved it all, desperate not to hold _GG_ down.

“Shit. Keith.” He voices this, sitting up, making sure not to sit on the other, but his arms pull at Keith’s waist, brings him into his lap as the younger latches close, lips never straying too far from his own. “Okay. I’ll teach you, alright?”

And, damn it, he has a lot of things to teach. So many things because Shiro knows – this has been a long time coming. Sure, it started with stares and unsaid whispers, but it’s been growing since then – it’s festered in the small touches they’ve shared (a pat of praise, an arm around the shoulder for the camera, that fucking almost-kiss scene they had to film for that stupid show) and Shiro’s been repeating the same lines of denial in every week and month and year that’s passed and he knows it’s Keith’s name carved into his skin, ‘no’ spiraling around it like a thorny branch.

But he’s here, and Keith’s here and the boy on his lap moves, knees on his sides, and he feels that buckle and he feels _Keith_ straining against the cloth, feels it pressing against chest, lips still locked, moving, buckling, wanting _more, more, more._

His hands on the back of Keith’s knees, he whispers ‘don’t let go’ in between pecks and Keith tightens his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and, sure, the fans and the other members say that he’s the laziest, that he spends his time sleeping and doing nothing, but there’s nothing lazy about the way Keith gasps in excitement as Shiro stands, the way Keith’s knees lock around his waist as he holds him close and aloft, noses pressed against one another.

“Where—” Keith asks, whispers, a question trailing beneath the thrill.

“Just somewhere more comfortable, okay.” He answers, leaning close to kiss, and his feet take them both to his bedroom, and he doesn’t trip or stumble or hit the wall because he knows it by heart, knows it that well and, maybe, it’s because this is Keith in his arms, his weight on his and everything is warm and static. “Just wanna make you feel good. That okay, baby?”

The whine comes again, followed by a nod, and Keith’s lips on his like a promise Shiro seeks to fulfill.

* * *

The infinite white light burns his eyes — but Shiro can’t be bothered, not when he feels sweat sticking to his skin, turning cold as the stage fans’ sweeps cover them, and not when he can only hear the screaming of their fans in the audience.

Keith is beside him, and Shiro can hear him panting just as hard as the rest of them, Ryan laughing in disbelief — their mics long powered down — by his right.

They’ve made it, they’ve begun.

They’ve taken their first step — as a group — into the world of flickering lights.

* * *

Shiro pushes Keith back down to bed the moment his knees hit the edge and there’s something irreligious about the way the other lounges on it, weight resting on his elbows as he leans back, and something in his chest throbs at knowing that Keith is in his own bed. It claws at his chest, burrows itself deep into the cavity under his ribs and Shiro exhales.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, always asking, and his eyes are wide and questioning and just a bit hesitant. Shiro may have smiled, or not, but what he does know is that he clambers over the other until their hips are aligned, his elbows are on either side of Keith’s head and those eyes are there, staring and burrowing and locking them close.

“Beautiful.” The word escapes his lips without his consent, and Shiro can’t deny it – not with the way those eyes widen just a bit, the skin glistening in the moonlight streaming through the windows, the faint sheen of sweat dotting his hairline, just the idea of Keith in his bed, willing and wanting, for him to ravish and own.

Shiro leans close and trails his lip against the other’s chest, at the expanse of skin above the neckline of his shirt, up to the seam where neck meets shoulder and, maybe he’s feeling a bit playful, as he laps at the corner of that jaw by the ear and the body under him squirms as Keith holds his shirt tight and close.

“Shiro, that tickles.” _It tickles,_ he says, with that smile and those eyes and, fuck, Shiro wants him so much.

And he repeats the gesture, because he wants to see it – wants to see those dark eyes lighten in glee and thrill, wants to feel those hands pull him close, wants to see that smile on those lips glow for him and him only.

“My beautiful, beautiful boy.” He whispers, brands on the skin by his temple, and Keith whines once more – a sound that will forever be imprinted into his mind, a litany that he’ll never be able to unlearn, not in the way it seeps into his pores and wraps around his bones. He feels the throbbing ache of arousal deep between his legs but he reigns it back, not yet, because he wants to see Keith. He wants to _see_ all of him.

Shiro kisses him, deep and fierce and almost ferocious, sucks in the gasp and the whimpers as he angles his head to fit better against Keith’s (and they fit, they fit so well). “I want to see you,” he moans, feels Keith responding to his words in the way his hips buckle against Shiro’s. “Let me see you, baby.”

“Will you let me see you, Keith?” He asks, leaning away just a bit to look at the other, and his voice is even and calm and everything he is not, but the way he whispers it must have done something, because Keith whines again – never breaking his gaze – and nods.

He smiles, happily even, at the nod and lands one more kiss (one more in the line of a million more, an unending roulette of forever) – ‘my good boy, my perfect boy’ – and his hands are slowly itching their way under Keith’s shirt, feels the warm skin under and he knows it without seeing it – he’s seen Keith in all forms, in all the years they’ve shared but this is different.

This time, it’s them.

This time, it’s just each other.

This time, Keith is his.

“Shiro.” Keith whines again, and before him, that title meant nothing to Shiro. Not a zilch.

Now, it meant a world of difference. The way he whispers it has Shiro feeling a whirl of possessiveness – something primal and deep in his bones roars at the word, at the needy, reverent way Keith says it.

“C’mere, baby.” Shiro says, pulls the other into his arms as he trails his hands up Keith’s skin under his shirt, whispers at the other to raise his hands and kisses the other in praise as his words are obeyed, the black cloth opening to reveal smooth, pale skin. “Good boy.”

He loses track of the things he’s saying as he takes in Keith, in this new light, even if he knows the marks and the traces of his skin as well as he knows his own. He knows the color of the skin underneath the shirts, blocked from meeting the sun, knows the hair peeking out from his armpits, knows the color and shape of Keith’s nipples – shades darker than the rest of his body – and he grins, because it’s different now.

They’re different now.

Slowly, Shiro lays Keith back down before trailing kisses down his chest. He feels fingers fumble and thread through his hair – easily, now that the hair dye has been given enough time to rest – and there are hiccups and gasps and choked sounds bubbling prettily up Keith’s pretty mouth.

Shiro mouths at his sternum, down to his navel and at the trail disappearing under the band of his belt and jeans and the fingers in his hair are slightly scratching around and he inhales, breathes in the scent of Keith and he feels heady, intoxicated with lust and need and want. He feels Keith wanting it as much as he does, feels it in the hardness pressing against the denim, feels it throb and twitch against Shiro’s arm. His fingers trace the lines of the belt, and he opens his eyes to see Keith looking down at him, into his gaze (lips open, gasping, cheeks are red and those half-open eyes needy).

“Is this okay, Keith?” He asks, and Keith whimpers. “Can I see you, baby?”

He presses a kiss on the skin below his navel at Keith whispering ‘yes, yes, please’ and he smiles, his fingers undoing the belt and unraveling the other beneath him.

Dark blue, almost black, denim gives way to pale skin and Keith is whining again, that aching sound that has Shiro humming, pressing kisses on the lines of the jeans creased into Keith’s skin, sees the little imperfections (the old scar by his right knee, the dark patches of skin hidden beneath the thin cloth of his underwear and, yes, Keith really did fall on his thigh during dance practice – that would be the only explanation for the discoloration; the thought of someone else leaving this bruise on Keith has his anger flashing). He pulls the jeans away, forces them past the boots still on and he kisses the skin on display – thigh to calf to ankle – as he undoes the boots and pulls them off.

Keith is left on the bed, bare save for his underwear, red in the face, hands clawing at the blanket, unabashed want bright in his eyes.

Shiro ignores the member straining against the cloth of Keith’s underwear, ignores the tent that spikes when he so much as moves, and leans close to Keith, breathes into his space and kisses those lips open, wider, for him and just for him – and Shiro is gone, backing away, and before Keith could so much as make a sound, Shiro is pressing his lips against the outline of Keith’s cock.

“S—S-shi—”Keith stammers, gasps, chants and Shiro fucking _loves_ it.

He laps at the outline, lets his tongue lie flat against it, lets his teeth graze the outline through the cloth and breathes in the purity of Keith’s scent deep and he can feel the hips underneath him cantering and—

“Keith.”

“S—Shiro?” Keith gasps, his body straining. Shiro sees it, sees his struggle and he knows it _viscerally,_ feels it echoing in his own dick but, no, Keith wants to learn and Shiro wants to teach him, but he has to have control first.

“Behave.” The word is quiet, but even and Keith moans wantonly at it, almost crying, before he nods and his hips stop moving, muscles still tense but still.

“Please, Shiro? Please? I want it, I want you. Please.” Keith is praying, words coming fast and hurried and honest and, god _damnit,_ Shiro wants to let go and surrender (Keith’s words are cutting the threads of his control, his leashes thinning) but he doesn’t. Not like this, not yet.

“I know, baby.” He consoles the other, his own desire groaning from the depths of this throat. “I know and I’ll make you feel good, alright? You believe me, right? Baby? Look at me. ”

Keith is moaning, whimpering, head thrust back against the sheets, not responding to Shiro’s words. Shiro groans with him, but he reaches back up to grip the other’s throat – firm but gentle – and Keith finally looks back at him. “Trust me, okay?”

The dark eyes locked with his are glassy and eager. “You trust me, right, baby?”

“Y—yes. Yes, Shiro.”

Shiro smiles, leans close and kisses him lightly. “You’re my good boy, right?”

The hands that suddenly make their way up his shirt are tight and firm, slightly trembling. Keith’s lips open in a silent pant, eyes wet as Shiro brushes his hair away from his forehead. “Your boy?”

He nods, because Keith is. Keith is his good boy.

“Yeah. You’re my good boy, right? My _only_ good boy?”

And maybe it’s the use of ‘only’ and ‘my’, maybe it’s the way Shiro is using those words, maybe it’s because they own, they are possessive, the words have control and hold, and maybe it’s just because it’s always been like that:

That Keith has always been Shiro’s good boy, eyes wide and smiles honest, always itching and striving to be better, to never disappoint in anything he does – that years in an industry that could beat anything good and leave it dead has never been able to dampen the brightness that was Keith and, fuck, he knows that Keith will always do his best for him, always starving for praise and approval and the way that smile lights up when he does something good and Shiro tells him he is good, he’s so good and so, so, so beautiful—

_And it’s mine, mine, mine._

Those eyes whisper back – always looking to be praised, to be kissed into oblivion, to be gifted one soft and loving touch after the other and he knows Keith will bend over backwards if it meant Shiro smiled at him in praise.

“Yes, Shiro—“ Keith answers, pushes his nose close against the slope of Shiro’s neck. “I’m your good boy. I’ll always be your good boy.”

Shiro knows: Keith never disappoints.

* * *

Shiro reaffirms those words – ‘you’re my good boy, always so good for me, the best, always’ – reaffirms it amidst the clenching muscles and the pretty sounds trickling from Keith’s open mouth. He peels the underwear away, throws them to the floor, forgets about it, as he takes all of Keith in. His gaze is open, brazen, roving over Keith’s body and, yes, he’s seen it before – seen it a million times – but this was different.

He was seeing Keith – finally seeing him with desire – and his boy, his beautiful boy, with scarlet cheeks and pouty lips, shivers under his gaze, his legs moving, closing in, _hiding_ —

“Don’t,” Shiro whispers – if not a little harshly, as the limbs freeze – but the thought of Keith, _his boy,_ hiding himself from Shiro did things, made him feel a weight that didn’t sit well with him. His boy shouldn’t be afraid when it’s him, his boy shouldn’t have to hide himself when it’s Shiro. “Don’t hide yourself, okay. It’s just me.”

He punctuates every word with a kiss on either knee, a trail of his fingers on the inside of his thigh and Keith’s cock jumps at the attention but Shiro ignores it, steadies his gaze at Keith’s eyes, seeing the insecurities and the fear there. “You don’t have to hide yourself. Not when it’s me.”

_Not anymore. No cameras here to capture your every flaw, no anonymous names on the internet taking every bit of you and twisting it until you feel ugly and disgusting. Not here. Never here._

“I see you.” He says, and smiling, he can’t help but kiss Keith again, letting the other feel his own hardness pressed against his boy’s. Keith’s groan is cut short as Shiro kisses him deep. “You’re fucking perfect to me. Always.”

Shiro thumbs the hair away again, sees the glow in those dark eyes. “Even if you mess up, you’ll always be perfect to me.”

And he sees that – he sees the way Keith beats himself up after every mistake, every mishap, every little time that Keith makes the simple mistake of being human and gets shit thrown into his face from all directions, Shiro sees the way he shuts down, the way he lets those criticisms pointed at him take hold and lodge themselves deep into his heart, sees the way he overworks himself just so he could make up for it, to the point that he’s barely hanging on and Shiro fucking _hates_ it—

He hates the way those words have rotted themselves deep into Keith, the way they’ve decayed and infected, and _his_ boy shouldn’t have to go through that. Not anymore.

“I see you.” And he wants it to mean everything and nothing — and maybe Keith gets it — because the other is nodding, his eyes bright, and he’s holding on to Shiro like a lifeline.

_You deserve to feel good. Always._

He’s kissing his way down, once more, because he wants Keith to finally feel it. He wants his boy to feel nothing but everything Shiro wants to shower him with.

The skin of Keith’s cock is darker than the rest of his body, and he spies the veins making up the delicate skin, watches the way it stands in attention, resting against Keith’s navel, the head bulbous and painful and red with desire like it wants to impress Shiro and — Keith’s cock is just like the rest of him: perfect.

Shiro leans down, kisses the skin around it, in spite of the threads of black hair curled around it. He looks up from his position, sees the way Keith’s stomach muscles clench, feels the way his thighs are shaking from his grasp and the way those lips are trembling, as if mouthing words Keith can’t voice out, eyes on him.

When Shiro licks the underside of his cock, Keith’s eyes shut close as a painful moan escapes his lips, echoing in Shiro’s ears. The shamelessness of Keith’s desire has Shiro shaking, he wants to hear that sound again. Over and over.

He swallows the head of Keith’s cock and goes lower until his lips and nose feel Keith’s pubic hair, to the sound of Keith’s gasping and choking and moaning. Shiro knows how it feels like, been in Keith’s position so many times he’s lost count, but it’s different because Keith is his boy and his boy is feeling good and—

Shiro’s tongue traces the veins of Keith’s cock and he bobs his head to the chanting of his name from Keith’s lips, to the trembling of Keith’s thighs, to the crazed way Keith’s hands are grasping at the sheets, the heaving of his chest. He wants to make his boy feel this good – always – and he does his best, he doubles his effort until the only thing he could hear is the infinite echo of Keith’s pleasured moans.

Shiro’s sucked cock before – he’s no stranger to it and he may even consider himself a bit of a pro – but this is Keith under him, and the feeling of Keith in his mouth, the taste of his come dribbling out from all the pleasure he’s feeling – the bitter, salty tang – has Shiro shaking with desire. It’s a good thing Keith’s eyes are closed, otherwise he’d see just how affected Shiro was by all this, the shaky grip of his hands hidden by the trembling legs, the ragged breathing masked by Keith’s racing pants.

He bobs his head again, hums and the vibration has Keith’s entire body clenching and unclenching, tense as a bow, and Shiro rises just until the head is in his mouth before he comes back down to base and Keith’s groan is earsplitting, the hands are grasping and aching and they’re pulling at him and Shiro holds them, interlaces his fingers with Keith’s and he lets his tongue lap back up under the head, up to slit and he hums again and—

Keith is shouting as warm, thick fluid explodes in Shiro’s mouth. A bit surprised, but Shiro is gifted at adjusting, and he simply swallows Keith’s essence, swirls his tongue to lap at whatever’s remaining and his boy is gasping, his loud moans trickling into a steady gasps and whimpers as Shiro finally pulls away, licking at his lips. Keith’s cock twitches once, come drizzles out by the bit, and he’s gone soft, resting against his thigh.

Shiro’s breathing is rough, taking in the debauched boy in front of him, bare and naked and sweating and whimpering – covered in marks, _his_ marks, _his_ brands.

Keith’s eyes open, just a sliver, and his lips part just to say. “Shiro.”

And Shiro can be in denial about being in control when he’s just as much a slave to Keith as his boy is to him. He crawls over, mindful of the spent body under him, and his dick jumps in his boxers, his tent unashamed in their display, but he goes to Keith first – his boy will always take precedence.

“Shiro.” Keith whispers, whimpers, and Shiro gathers him in his arms, pressing kiss upon kiss on his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

“You were so good,” He plants, kisses the words onto Keith’s chin. “My good boy. So good for me. So perfect for me.”

And he _means_ it. The memory of Keith’s desire, the taste of him deep from mouth to throat to stomach, will be something he won’t ever forget.

He moves to kiss Keith deeper, and his dick brushes up against the boy’s stomach and he groans into Keith’s mouth, and even when spent and sated and exhausted, his boy’s eyes are excited as they take in the bulge in Shiro’s boxers.

“I want to see you, Shiro.” Keith says, whispers to him in the crevice of their kisses. His voice is low and guttural and Shiro trembles a bit. “I want to see you.”

And the grin on Shiro’s face as Keith smiling back.

* * *

Shiro takes off his shirt first, letting Keith gaze at his body. He’s aware — completely and humbly lucid — of how fit he is, the muscles born from a lifetime of dancing and balance, knows that there are a thousand stills of it on the Internet, as a fan’s mobile phone wallpaper or printed out in posters to be sold. He’s familiar with the feeling of other people’s gaze on his bare skin, when he walks around on stage without a shirt to rile up the fans. Still, there was something appreciative about the way Keith looks at him, lets those eyes burn their gaze on to his skin.

Maybe it’s because it’s Keith, and to him, this is Shiro.

Maybe it’s just them.

When he takes off his boxers, Keith’s gaze drops to his dick and his eyes blink a bit. Shiro understands, a smile on his lips. His dick has always been a bit bigger, compared to the rest of the members (the moments he sees theirs when they shower in haste, and after years of living together, it was barely surprising at this point), and it angles down even when hard. Not unlike any other penis, to be honest.

Keith’s gaze, though, the way those eyes are locked on his dick and the way his hands grasp the sheets when it twitches has Shiro groaning quietly.

“Hey,” Shiro whispers, and it takes a while before Keith looks back up at him. “You can touch it, if you want.”

“I—I want to.” Keith answers back, before – like steeling himself — he kneels closer and Shiro’s dick twitches once more, as if displaying its excitement.

When Keith grasps his dick with a hand – tight but not rough – Shiro sucks a breath in and moans low. Keith looks at him and he looks back down, unashamed of the want he knows is evident on his face. He wants Keith to know, to know that his boy is making him feel good.

“Different, right?” He asks, smiling a bit as Keith nods, slowly moving his hand up and down, frissons and tendrils of pleasure flowing through his veins at Keith’s constant and inexperienced touch. “You can use both hands if—ack, _fuck_ —baby.”

And he’s reminded that Keith is a fast learner, an eager learner – as he doesn’t wait for Shiro to finish before he’s bring his other hand up to jerk him off and, _fuck,_ both his hands are pumping and rotating in different directions and, _god,_ it feels good.

His lips are open, wet, and he’s moaning, one hand gripping Keith’s shoulder, the other gripping the boy’s face, thumb trailing his lips. “Yes, _yes,_ like that. That’s my good boy— _shit,_ baby, that’s so good.”

Keith’s lips are parted open, in surprise or in fascination, and Shiro’s hips are canting in motion with his boy’s hands on his dick and, heavens help him, he wants to ram his dick past those pretty lips and fuck Keith’s mouth open until he’s coming deep and hot down his throat—

But, no, he doesn’t do anything, just allows himself to be pleasured by Keith’s clumsy hands because this is _his_ boy, and he wants his boy to learn and he doesn’t want to scare Keith. He never wants Keith to feel afraid of him. Ever.

So, he allows himself to moan and groan. He allows himself to whisper how good Keith is to the open air, to press his thumb against that cheek and allow his legs to tremble and Keith’s head is swiveling back and forth, as if he’s confused and he doesn’t know where to look – to look at the bloom of pleasure and _good, so good_ on Shiro’s face or on the painfully red head of his dick, at the fumbling of his own hands and—

“Shit, fuck. Yes, so good. Mmm.” Shiro praises, because the way Keith’s eyes are determined – at the thought of his boy doing his best to make _him_ feel good was numbing everything except for how good it feels – and, fuck, his boy is the prettiest, gorgeous thing ever.

There’s a coming rush, clambering up his veins, from belly down to groin and Shiro knows he’s close – and how can he _not_ be when it’s Keith making him feel good — and he says this, tries to anyway, past the moans he can’t hold back.

“Baby, I’m close. Fuck, you’re so good, shit, baby. Shit, shit, ah, Keith, _fuck—_ “ and Keith finally stops being torn between looking at him and his dick as Keith locks his gaze with him, bends his head and licks at the slit of his cock and Shiro _loses_ it.

He groans, not breaking eye contact, he wants Keith to know that he feels so fucking good because of him, as come spurts out and paints his boy’s face in strands of white. His thighs are trembling, his chest heaving and, shit, Keith is kissing his dick, tongue peeking out to lap at the slit and he can _feel_ it with how sensitive it is and he feels like he’s about to orgasm again.

All because of Keith.

“Shit, Keith.” He breathes out as Keith makes a face at the taste of his come, and his eyes are wide as they look up at him, as if not noticing Shiro’s own essence painted across his cheeks and skin. “Shit.”

And he’s leaning down, kissing Keith, licking at his own come, cleaning his boy up before taking those lips and feeling Keith’s sighs against his lips. “So, so good.”

“Really?” Keith asks, quietly – almost silently — eyes boring into his and how can Shiro ever hope to lie with those eyes on him?

He nods, and answers. “Yes, you’ll always make me feel good.”

* * *

They don’t really fall asleep after – more of a light doze, with Keith burrowing himself deep into Shiro’s side, face pressed against the crook of Shiro’s neck and he knows that Keith is just as awake as him, with the occasional tracing of his fingers on Shiro’s chest. The silence between them is easy and has none of the weirdness Shiro feared it might have.

Perhaps an hour or so after, when he’s slumbered a bit, is when he feels the brush of Keith’s hand on his dick. It’s soft, and light, at first – just a brush of his fingers on the head of his dick. Shiro feels it but doesn’t make mark of it, just resting easy enough to press his lips against the crown of Keith’s head, his hand drawing shapes and figures on the skin of his boy’s back.

The hand comes up again, and Shiro sucks in a breath as he feels Keith fondle with his balls, with those fingers intentionally pressing and prodding and tracing the lines of his dick and he can’t help it – not when it’s Keith so eager – that his dick starts to harden at the touch.

There’s a smile on Keith’s face, and a shared look of desire, before Shiro nods at Keith’s unspoken request. The other is quick to hold his dick a little firmer and Shiro allows his hands to pat and stroke over the expanse of Keith’s back, from up his shoulder blades to the small of his back and down to the smooth skin of his buttocks.

His dick is hard now, not painfully but it’s evident and it’s thick, and Shiro isn’t the type of person to need sex as much as most people his age, but this is Keith and there’s always been something in Keith that brings out a ferocity he never realized was in him, a need to control and protect his boy. No, not control. Lead, foster and champion.

He dips his hand again down the small of the other’s back, to his butt, and Keith jumps – whimpers –and, wow, his boy is already hard for him? Perfect.

Shiro pulls his hands back up to cup Keith’s face and smiles at him. “Wanna learn something else?”

And bright, eager, _beautiful_ Keith smiles back just as widely. “Yes, Shiro.”

* * *

“You okay, baby?” Shiro asks as he lays Keith down properly, and settles himself between the other’s legs. They’re both naked, have been since they got in bed and Shiro feels there won’t be a time where he will never want to see Keith like this.

His boy nods, smile a bit on the shy. He doesn’t want Keith to be afraid of him, but, fuck him, Shiro can’t deny how with one look alone Keith can have him do anything he wanted but chooses not to. The realization that Keith knows this, and still decides to let his Shiro do anything to him, leaves Shiro faint with want.

“Good. I want you to feel good.” Shiro answers.

“You said that before.” Keith says back, biting his lip, and his cheeks grow red. “You kept saying that.”

He kisses the inside of Keith’s left thigh, then – for good measure – kisses the head of Keith’s erect dick. A gasp, and Shiro grins. “It’s true.”

Keith is silent, save for his breathing, eyes not leaving Shiro. Then, in a voice too quiet and airy— “You make me feel good. A lot.”

Shit, his chest isn’t supposed to feel this heavy, right? “Is that so?”

Keith nods, and Shiro smiles through the weight on his chest. One day, he’ll make Keith realize just _how_ much he makes Shiro feel good. “Good. I want you to feel good. Anytime, baby. Every time you feel shitty, I’ll make you feel good. Every time you think you’ve fucked up, I’ll make you remember how good you fucking feel. I promise, okay?”

And his words are trite and gauche and cheesy and rough and the way Keith’s face gets redder and redder as each word drives itself home and his hips are bucking, reminding Shiro of his desire.

Shiro leans down, to kiss the underside of Keith’s cock and he whines at it, but Shiro doesn’t stop there – he leans down and kisses Keith’s balls, feels how tight they are and, shit, Keith is always this excited for him, isn’t he?

His boy repeats a litany of ‘Shiro’ as Shiro sucks in one ball, then the other, as his hands grasp and caress over the skin of Keith’s thighs and navel, as his mouth travels from ball to ball to cock, the head pressing against his nose, his eyes closed at the intoxicating, addictive smell of Keith’s musk.

Then, Shiro is going south, lower, to the skin beneath Keith’s balls and he feels the muscles tighten and Keith’s whine is piercing in the silence. He presses a kiss or two on the perineum, laps at it with his tongue, to the melody of Keith’s choked surprise and pleasure, at the hidden zones of pleasure his own body where Shiro will, one day, know by heart. His hands recede from their rest on Keith’s thighs to travel down the undersides and grip the sides of Keith’s buttocks, as Shiro continues to lap and tongue at the skin between anus and scrotum, relishing the tremors wracking the muscles and the crazed clenching of his boy’s entrance.

“Baby, you still there?” He asks, pulling up, looking at Keith from his position, past his painfully erect dick, and his boy’s eyes open, lost in pleasure, to look at him and nod slowly. His lips are red, and his skin is sweaty and he looks blinding.

Shiro smiles back before returning to his position, but he doesn’t attack Keith’s perineum anymore. No, not when he has a new target, and he has something new to teach to his diligent boy. Hands grasping Keith’s legs, Shiro moves them to rest on his shoulders, pulling him closer to Keith and his boy is confused, but excited and Shiro kisses his thigh once more in comfort and praise before going back down.

Keith’s entrance is cute, for a lack of a better word. It was pink, and small, and it was clenching in excitement, sweat dotting his ass, the mismatch of coloration of his skin oddly beautiful in this light. With gentle hands, Shiro grasps his buttocks and spreads them apart and even that touch had Keith groaning. He kneads the cheeks, massaging them, and Keith continues to moan together.

Pulling them apart, Shiro spies his boy’s entrance once more before he leans close, lets his nose adjust to the deep scent of Keith’s musk, before starting to lick and tongue at the entrance with all the experience he could.

Keith groans loud and aching, and his body is shaking, and Shiro pushes his tongue deeper, feels the entrance relax under his ministrations and, honestly, there’s not taste to it – like licking your own finger or something – but it’s the heady groans and whimpers that escape Keith’s lips that had him addicted to it, relentlessly working him open with his tongue, lapping and licking and slurping. The knees on his shoulders are tense and, unconsciously, his hands massage the cheeks to comfort their tension while he continues to fuck Keith open with his tongue.

Rimming isn’t something he’s particularly experienced with, but Shiro thinks he’s somewhat okay with it – if the sounds Keith is making are indication enough for it.

“Shiro, Shiro, hngh—mm.” Gibberish escape Keith’s lips and Shiro wants him to unravel again. Over and over.

The hands that were grasping the sheets were now in his hair, and the knees on his shoulder were trembling, locked, almost pushing him forward and Shiro pushes back a bit, slaps his hand on Keith’s butt to get his attention. “Baby, relax, c’mon, relax for me.”

“I wanna—“Keith gasps, shaking his head, eyes closed. “I wanna— _Shiro, please._ ”

“It feels good, right? Does it feel good, baby?”

Keith sobs, nods, and his whine is loud, his hole clenching tight, inviting Shiro to pry them open and he _wants_ to. Not yet, though, not when Keith isn’t looking at him – lost in his own pleasure.

“You wanna come, right? You wanna come for me?”

Another whine. Shiro knows he might sound cruel, but his tone is gentle and warm. “You want to feel good, right, baby? You want me to feel good, too, right?”

“Yes.” Keith manages to swim back to reality, still in the throes of pleasure, but he’s looking at Shiro now. “I want to make you feel good, too.”

He smiles wide, proud of his boy. “Of course, you do. You’re my boy.”

“Your boy.”

Shiro leans down to kiss the skin of where his thigh meets pelvis, then back up at his hip where the constantly tight jeans he’s forced to wear for performances and photoshoots have left their mark, in the dark patches of Keith’s skin.

“I want to make love to you, baby. I want to come inside you and make you feel so good. Is that okay? You want that, Keith?”

With anyone else, the words escaping his mouth would have been embarrassing, trite and creepy, even. Thing was, it was Keith and he wants his boy to know – to know deep in his heart or as deep as skin and blood can run that Shiro wants him to feel good.

The answering groan, blanketed with a sob, is answer enough for him.

He smiles and drops back down, and kisses the now-clenched hold in anticipation. Shiro resumes his ministrations, lets his tongue pry Keith’s entrance open once more, and he just _loves_ how responsive Keith is, to his touch, to his voice, to his words. Fuck, it leaves him with a high that could be so dangerous.

Keith keened, his ab muscles tight and his legs tense and Shiro is relentless, he doesn’t stop and he sees Keith grasping his own dick and no, not yet, and Shiro is holding his hands away, ignores the whispers of ‘please, let me come, Shiro’ and continues to eat him out, saliva dripping from his lips and down Keith’s entrance and his tongue lapping at it open.

He manages to wrangle Keith’s hand with a single grasp, as he lets his other itch close to Keith’s entrance, prods the area around his tongue with his finger and feels how Keith opens up to him at his touch. He’s not even sure if it’s sweat on his cheek or saliva and he doesn’t care anymore, rising up just to breathe as he starts to push his finger inside Keith.

The easy way his finger slides in Keith has him looking at his boy. “You’ve done this before, Keith?”

Keith whines, biting his lips, looking away.

Shiro stops his finger from moving, and Keith gasps at the departing pleasure. “Answer me, baby.”

“Yes,” Keith relents, _crimson,_ as he looks at Shiro.

Honesty enough for him, Shiro starts to resume his movement but _slower_ — painfully slow. Keith knows this, sees it in the way he’s biting his lips again, hard enough to bleed, fidgeting and throbbing. “When?”

A shake of the head, still red in the face. Shiro slows down even more until Keith gasps. “L—last night.”

Ah, ah. Bad boy. Shiro curls his finger, slowly guessing his way inside Keith until he feels the bundle of nerves that he knows could feel so good. The involuntary way Keith’s knees jitter has him knowing he guessed right. “How many?”

“H—Shiro?”

Shiro lightly grazes the area. Keith keens. “How many?

“Two. Just two, Shiro.” A rush of words, punctuated with a gasp.

Shiro smiles at him, sweetly, as he continues to finger Keith, to graze over the heat but purposefully missing that one zone. “Naughty boy.”

Keith shakes his head, sweaty and eyes shining. “No, no, no. ‘m good boy. Your good boy.”

 _Fuck,_ Shiro thinks _. Fucking shit, Keith should be illegal._

The fervent way Keith whispers those words, the unashamed way his chest heaves and his dick twitches at him and Shiro knows that if Keith asked him to pull the moon down, he’d fucking bring him the stars too.

“Guess you are, huh? My beautiful, beautiful, good boy.”

“Mmhmm. I am, Shiro. I am.”

Fuck, Shiro knows that there’ll never be anyone after this – not the cute guy who brings their instruments and loads them into the van, or the barista with the tattoos and beard at CORAN ENTERTAINMENT’s café or the memory of his last one-night stand with a guy who smiled a bit too eerily like Keith – because it’ll always be Keith.

“What did you think of?” He asks, leans down to kiss those lips, finger still inside Keith because the heat is inescapable. Keith follows his lips even when he leans back, eyes wide and dark.

“You.”

Pleasure and joy and _mine,mine,mine_ explodes and floods his veins at the admission and, fuck, Shiro doesn’t know if he wants to continue their explorations or just pocket Keith and hide him away forever. He doesn’t even realize when he presses ‘good, so good for me’ into Keith’s lips.

“Just think of me, okay?”

He pushes another finger in Keith’s wondrous heat. “Just think of me and nobody else.”

Another finger, and three of them in and they’re pushing at the bundle of nerves until Keith’s groans fluctuate in pitch for every touch, every graze and Shiro realizes that he doesn’t even take long to know it by heart – he might as well have placed it there himself.

* * *

There’s a moment of pause between them, where Shiro lathes lube over his dick and Keith just lies there, legs open, chest heaving, eyes wanting.

“It’s easier when you’re on your knees,” Shiro says, smiles, taking in the intelligence of those dark brown eyes.

“But I want to see you.” Keith continues, voice raspy and the smile on Shiro’s face grows _proud._

“See, baby? We’re already finishing each other’s sentences.” _So proud, proud of you._

When Shiro readies himself and places Keith’s knees on his shoulders, he takes a moment to watch, to feel his dick against Keith’s entrance and—

He’s going in bareback, he knows. Shiro’s always been about safety, and when it comes to sex, with other people, he’s always using protection (even if it’s just oral sex) because his career will always come on top of anything else and, with anyone else, he’d flat out refuse for bareback but—

This is Keith. This is his boy. Shiro knows, that after this, there will be no one else.

(—and the thought of Keith opening himself like this to someone else, someone not Shiro, has his anger spiking and his vision tunneling out to red.)

Shiro rests himself on his elbows, by the sides of Keith’s shoulders, and he’s looking into Keith’s deep eyes and he’s pushing himself in, prodding the entrance open and Keith gasps, hands tight around Shiro’s waist and—

He’s clenching, Shiro realizes. He prods in, once more, and feels himself denied and Shiro looks at Keith, sees the desperation and desire and _fear_ in those eyes and he _understands._

“Hey, hey.” Shiro whispers, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Let me in, baby. You know I’ll make you feel good. Let me in.”

Keith whines, eyes dark with pleasure as Shiro tries again, and is denied. Anyone else, and he’d be irritated, or he’d lose interest. This is his boy. He’ll never be angry with his boy. He’ll never lost interest with his boy.

He leans down, rests his head on the pillow under Keith’s head and traces the lobe of his boy’s exposed ear as he continues to touch and caress Keith’s entrance with the head of his dick. His whispers are low and quiet, only for Keith to hear. “You can let me in, baby. I know you’re afraid. You don’t have to be, not with me. I’m here. Let me in, please.”

The clawing at his back, the gasping and the buckling – they all point towards the fact that Keith wants this, wants this just as much as Shiro but, while these are familiar waters for him, they were unknown seas to his inexperienced boy. He wasn’t afraid of Shiro, he was afraid of everything else.

Shiro knows there’s a word for the tumbling and turbulence his heart is going through, but he’s not willing to name it, not now, not in the middle of this, not yet. In time, in the future, when Keith had learned from him as best as he can, maybe he’ll have the strength to accept it for what it is.

The now, though, the now was all about Keith, and them.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, breathes out his name and even his name is beautiful. “Let me in.”

And Keith finally opens and allows him inside, groaning out in pleasure as he sheathes himself in, as deep as he goes until the ends of Shiro stitch themselves to the beginnings of Keith.

There are no words, honestly, for how good Shiro feels, with Keith’s warmth around him. There are no words to describe the heat, the tightness, the way he can feel Keith’s heartbeat around him, or the idea that he’s _inside_ Keith, that they fit so well and that it feels like a prayer on his lips.

Keith looks blown out and dazed, and this close, Shiro could see the way his pupils have dilated and the brown has been pushed back, and his eyes are almost black in the shadows cast by the light and, just by looking at him, Shiro feels close to rushing past the point of no return already.

Shiro doesn’t move yet, afraid he might climax the moment he does because Keith feels so good around him. He leans his forehead against his boy’s, and breathes into him (knees shaking just a bit, lips trembling just a bit, heart pounding just a second faster).

The hands clawing at his back had simply tightened, pulling him closer – a vice grip that promises to never let go (“Don’t let go,” he whispers, hoisting Keith up in the air and the fervid way he holds on to Shiro has his heart pounding a hundred miles a minute. “I won’t let you fall.” ). Keith simply stares back up at him, silent, and his eyes play a zoetrope of so many emotions that Shiro stumbles, trying to follow, until he realizes that he’s simply looking at his own reflection in those trusting eyes.

So, he leans close, keeps his whispers low as he can manage, and plays like a broken record, repeating how good, how warm, how beautiful Keith was as he slowly moves his hips, as he slowly pulls out to slam right back in.

(‘You’re doing so well. Baby, you’re so good for me.’)

He feels the moans before he _hears_ them, feels them in the pounding around his dick, at the unceasing hold Keith has around, never breaking his gaze, never loosening his hold on Shiro’s shoulders and his heart for even a second.

(‘Yes, let go. Trust me, baby. I won’t let you fall.’)

And he knows he’s hitting Keith’s prostate, knows it intimately because Keith is his, Keith is his boy and no one else gets to have this moment, this knowledge except him. He knows that he’s fucking him in the right angle, in the right spot, in the clenching of the tightness around him, in the way Keith leans up to kiss him, the way he steals Shiro’s breath away - not just in this moment, but in a million other moments, the moments where Keith shines the brightest.

(‘You’re mine.’)

_And I’m yours._

And Keith is crying out, in the spaces between their open-mouthed kisses, in the spaces where Shiro allows him to even breathe as he pushes even closer, raises Keith’s knees even higher and brings them to a climax.

Keith comes first, unable to take the heat and the pounding, and he grows _impossibly_ tighter and, shit, Shiro can’t believe he can feels this good. Keith’s body stills and tenses, until his cock is spurting come between them – all without having been touched – and Shiro kisses him deep when Keith comes, reminds him, imprints his name into Keith’s tongue so that everyone else will know who he belongs to.

The heat around him grows tight and Shiro pushes into him once, twice and he’s coming in deep, feels himself releasing into Keith, not realizing the shit he’s whispering to Keith as he owns his boy and reaffirms his mark and, fuck, Keith can feel that – and Keith will realize that he’s owned now, and, shit, this control thing isn’t Shiro – he’s not really like that but the thought of owning Keith for-fucking-ever has his dick pulsing more come out until he’s all but ready to collapse over the other, gasping against his lips.

The aftermath is decorated with deep-set breathing, trembling muscles and a mess of limbs. The air is heavy with musk and sex and Shiro finally allows himself to collapse against Keith, as the arms around him continue to hold him close. Keith turns his head to follow his gaze, as Shiro settles his cheek against the space beside him, half – if not most – of his body still atop Keith’s (covering him, protecting him, _mine, mine, mine)_.

They don’t say anything, not yet, and Shiro just allows himself and his heart to adjust, to breathe slowly, to map the lashes of Keith’s eyes, to map and memorize every nuance of his features, the still-present flush of his cheeks and the askew strands of his hair. He looks into dark brown eyes, and continues to lock their gaze together, as he cups his boy’s cheek with a gentle hand, thumbing the slope of his skin, the pink of his lips.

There are so many things he wants to say, but he doesn’t know which to say, what words to even use or if he’s even allowed to say them – because this, the post-high, the sleepy aftermath, this was something Shiro never wanted to share with anybody. It was all sex, all push and pull and peak and it was out the door.

Right now, looking into Keith’s eyes, Shiro doesn’t want to share this with anyone _else_ at all.

“How was it?” There were still so many things he wants to teach Keith, but the tick of the clock by his bedside table reminds him of the coming dawn and the days to come, and he knows they can only revisit this moment in the cover of shadows and darkness, in the moments where it’s just the two of them.

“Like I belonged to you.” Keith answers, voice even, _honest_ in every way possible and Shiro inches closer just to breathe in his scent.

_I’ve always belonged to you._

(it’s an epiphany and a fact at the same time, he thinks.)

He doesn’t answer, just stares at the slope of Keith’s nose and he watches as the dark eyes look a way for a moment, to stare at the darkness covering the ceiling and they grow dull and hazy. Shiro presses closer.

“What is it, Keith?”

His boy is silent, lips moving to speak but no sound comes out.

“Talk to me, Keith.”

_You don’t have to hide anything, not from me._

Keith is silent, continues to stare at the ceiling — and Shiro waits, for the other to organize his thoughts, to find the desire to trust Shiro out of his own volition. He will never demand Keith’s trust, all he could do is show him that Shiro was worth trusting, that his boy’s faith in him will never be misplaced. Shiro wants that, most of all.

“I get angry when I think about you making other people feel good.”

It takes a moment for Shiro to digest, for him to take those words (spoken in an even tone, just a tad bit insecure) in, until elation replaces the thrumming in his veins – and, fuck, he agrees because the thought of Keith with someone else pisses him off.

He wants to shout and scream in joy, but he bottles it up, knows that Keith might mistake it for a different reason, and simply relents with gathering Keith tight into his arms. The other turns to look at him, and finds Shiro smiling (softly, if not a little _too_ gently).

And he promises Keith— “I’ll only make you feel good and you’ll only make me feel good.”

And when Keith nods, affirms the promise, Shiro kisses him deep and knows that this midnight blue affection was not the end, but the beginning.

* * *

“Yeah, he’s here with me. Okay, we’ll be waiting at the lobby. Alright, bye.” Shiro ends the call with their manager, locking his phone and placing it back inside the pockets of his coat. He’s standing by the living room door, resting against the island table – a mirror of last night’s action, yet the context has changed.

Keith leaves the bedroom, dressed back in his clothes from last night, but wearing one of Shiro’s coats – the January air is still frigid and merciless and Keith has a tendency to start sneezing the moment he takes two steps past the front door of the apartment building – and Shiro smiles at the image, at the throb of pleasure in his chest at the idea of Keith wearing _his_ clothes.

“You look really good.” He says, honestly. Even without make up, without the canvas painstakingly prepared by their coordinators, Keith is still a beauty, the more so at the remnants of red on his lips. Shiro smiles wider as Keith realizes where the other’s gaze is on.

“You, too.” Keith answers, and Shiro doesn’t even bring up his usual argument of his own lackluster looks without the sheen of glitter, simply smiles at Keith and brings a hand up, closing his fingers around Keith’s as his beautiful boy bounds up to kiss him. Shiro pulls him close, arm around his waist, addicted to his taste.

When he pulls back, Keith has a roguish smile on his face and, yeah, Keith is a hundred types of shy: there’s the shyness that borders on awkward, in the first few weeks he’s known the boy; there’s the kind of shyness, bowed head and little smiles, when Keith talks about his favorite comic, the kind of shyness that first made Shiro realize that what’s beating in his chest was a different kind of affection, a deeper kind; there was the other shyness, the one that peeked out last night, hidden in the far too long stares and the far too short words, the kind of shyness that is both intentional and unintentional and strings Shiro up far too perfectly. Keith will always be a shy person, to most people, but not to his friends, and not to Shiro especially.

But now, the expression on his face is roguish and impish and mischievous and it’s the Keith underneath all the layers of shyness and quiet and introversion – it’s the Keith that doesn’t relent, the Keith that can give as good as he can take it, the kind of Keith that is ever so quiet but unwilling to be bossed around – the flame-tempered steel and the honest smiles, the bright star he really is and Shiro _likes_ (because words are dangerous and certain words are a bit too honest for Shiro, for the moment) him like this the best.

The grin on Keith’s face is audacious even. “Was that everything you wanted to teach me, Shiro?”

And, fuck, yes, this Keith — as a whole, shy yet confident, daring but quiet — is perfect; but that doesn’t mean Shiro’s not willing to push his buttons, because he knows he’s the only who can.

He lets go of their hands, pulls Keith close by the chin and gives him a deep, bruising kiss that has his boy holding on to his jacket in want and need, has Keith pressing against his front in an encore of their midnight dance, has his boy echoing the whimpers and gasps that have been carved into the walls of Shiro’s apartment, into the cavities of his heart and the recesses of his mind.

When he breaks away, Keith’s eyes are blown and black and his cheeks are crimson, lips wet and bruised. He thumbs them softly, before smiling at Keith.

“Not yet.”

And when he walks away first, steps into the hallway, there’s a moment of silence before he feels heavy steps bound and bump into him, and he turns to see Keith’s smile (wide, honest, bright like the morning sun) aimed at him and _only_ at him.

When they lock the door and walk down the steps to the lobby where reality waits, Keith’s promises echo in the pitches of his laughter.

Shiro smiles at him, raises a hand to brush the hair away from his eyes just as a black van rolls into the street beyond the glass entrance.

Keith’s eyes are shining. He was beautiful.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In spite of Shiro calling Keith his 'boy', neither are underage during the smut parts as it's a fast-forward cut from their first ever meeting. I also view it as parcel to his 'possessiveness' during the sex, though his self-awareness ensures that it won't be something that will be carried over to his actual relationship with Keith. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed reading this. I certainly had fun writing it, and following the general rule of thumb of K-POP RPF, I may or may not expand into other pairings for this universe. Thanks for taking the time to read - let me know what you think!
> 
> Come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny) and on [Tumblr](https://spaceboykenny.tumblr.com/)


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